


Band Aids on a Broken Spirit

by TragicUnicorn



Category: Tom Clancy's Rainbow Six (Video Games)
Genre: Post-Traumatic Stress Disorder - PTSD, Survivor Guilt, Therapy
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2019-01-22
Updated: 2019-01-22
Packaged: 2019-10-14 09:02:16
Rating: Mature
Warnings: Graphic Depictions Of Violence
Chapters: 1
Words: 1,321
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/17505608
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/TragicUnicorn/pseuds/TragicUnicorn
Summary: Doc hosts a therapy session for Ela.





	Band Aids on a Broken Spirit

**Author's Note:**

> So I was given this prompt: “I can’t carry on this way anymore. I can’t live like this.”  
> And I was like NICE I can make this FUCKING SAD. So I tried to make it fucking sad, I hope you enjoy.

Gustave “Doc” Kateb sat on a couch with his legs crossed as he tapped the cap of his ballpoint pen against his lip in thought. He donned a doctor’s lab coat and a nice blue shirt and brown trousers. He looked very professional and clean-cut, as usual.

           “So... walk me through what happened last night,” his voice was soft spoken and there was an aura of patience about the way he said it. He knew that it was a miracle that Ela even agreed to be here.

Elżbieta ‘Ela’ Bosak sat on the side of the therapy chair, resting her elbows on her thighs. She, on the other hand, wore a gray hoodie and jeans. She did not want people to know she was here at all, but her green hair never failed to give her away. She took a deep breath and exhaled forcibly.

            “...You know I wouldn’t be here if it was anybody else.”

Doc didn’t respond, but scribbled down a short note on his clipboard.

            “Alright....so it started when I got the letter…” she continued.

 

* * *

 

 

Ela sat at her desk in her room alone with an unopened envelope in her hands. It was an official message, addressed from GROM’s headquarters in Warsaw. That rarely entailed good news. Without further delay, she crudely ripped open the envelope with her fingers and pulled out the contents. She reached up and flicked on the desk lamp and unfolded the document.

            “What the hell is this…” Ela muttered.

Her eyes began scanning the first line but upon the word “sympathies” she dropped the paper onto the desk. There was an oppressive pit in her stomach.

            “No, no, no no no no….”

 

* * *

 

 

The only sound in the room was Doc’s hasty scribbling and the tick of the clock above him. The ticking was driving Ela crazy.

            “And hearing about the loss...triggered the following events and the drinking?”

            “I guess that’s what happened...it’s really a blur.”

            “I see…and this person...who was he to you?”

            “A squad mate. A member of my team.”

            “Ela,” Doc murmured. “Who was he to _you?_ ”

Ela inhaled sharply and her retort got caught in her throat.

_I don’t want to talk about this. I don’t want to be here._

            “A friend…”

 

* * *

 

 

There was a loud and sudden crash as a metal door slammed open a ways in the distance from where Twitch and a new recruit were conversing. Elżbieta Bosak stumbled out of her housing unit, visibly drunk with a large knife in one hand. She took several steps forward and collapsed on the ground with a slight thump, as her limp body hit the grass. The knife clattered harmlessly on the gravel road at her feet kicking up a bit of dust.

            Emmanuelle ‘Twitch’ Pichon and the recruit spun to face the noise, as they were not too far away along the path.

            “That’s Ela,” Twitch said, concerned.

            “...Who? Is she okay??”

            “She’s been around for about a year now and is one of our more experienced operators...and apparently also an alcoholic…” Twitch breathed. “Come on, let’s help her.”

The two operators jogged over to where Ela lay face down, unresponsive in the cold grass. Her back slowly rose and fell with each shallow breath, indicating that she was still alive.

            “Secure the knife and check her room, I got her,” Twitch grunted as she picked Ela up in a fireman’s carry. Ela's body remained limp, save for her soft breathing. Her emerald green hair was messy and unkempt, and her arms dangled lifelessly over Emmanuelle’s shoulders.  
She let out a quiet groan. Twitch started walking briskly towards the medical unit, softly speaking into Ela’s ear words of reassurance. As she left, the Recruit walked into the room to a horrific scene.

Upon entry, what lied before him was the aftermath of a tempest. The shared living space was covered in fallen papers and kitchen supplies. The coffee table was knocked over. It was a wonder the TV was still intact, though it was on the floor as well. There was a pool of vomit, staining the hardwood floor a revolting orange-brown. The most concerning thing about the room was the seemingly hundreds of slash marks in the walls, most likely from the knife she had dropped earlier. The wallpaper was in tatters and were hanging by shreds of paper.

 

* * *

 

 

            “What made you demolish your room?”

            “Why does it matter? It’s not like Zo spent more than a week in there,” Ela spat.

            “It matters because destruction of your own living quarters is not a healthy way of expelling emotions.”

            “I was fucking mad, alright?” Ela’s voice cracked, before her eyes welled up with tears. She squeezed them shut before they had the opportunity to fall.

_I can’t believe I’m breaking down in front of another operator. Fuck…_

            “Ela it is healthy to cry. Don’t keep it within yourself.”

            “Fuck off, Kateb,” she responded, but she listened. Tears begun to stream down her cheeks and fall off the tip of her chin.

            “What were you angry at?” Doc continued without missing a beat.

            “I lost a lot of people in Iraq. And I...it was because I wasn’t good enough. And this time he died because I wasn’t there.” Her voice was uncharacteristically shaky and she seemed unsure of herself. Her facade of brash overconfidence and pride slid down her cheeks and lay abandoned in small drops on the cold floor.

            “What happened in Iraq? Why do you feel responsible?”

            “I was in the rear vehicle. It was a night Humvee patrol, during the insurgency phase of the Iraq War. The lead humvee hit an IED and-” her voice got caught in her throat once again.

            “And why do you feel responsible?” Doc repeated the question.

            “Because I made the order to take that route. I knew there was a higher chance of contact that way but I did it anyways. Guess fucking what, I was right and now 14 PMC’s are dead and unburied.”

            Doc paused and wrote a lot down on his clipboard before uncrossing his leg and sitting up straighter.

            “I know this is difficult for you. You have to understand that none of these deaths are on your hands. You made that call in Iraq because your mission in the area is to eliminate hostiles and taking that path was the best way to draw them out. You couldn’t have known that you would be ambushed. Your friend, from GROM. He didn’t die because you were not present. All of us, everyone at Rainbow knows the risks. Your friend would not want you to keep going on, blaming yourself for something you had no part of.”

            “I can’t carry on this way anymore, Kateb. I can’t live like this,” Ela shivered, wiping the wetness from her face. The more she spoke, the heavier her Polish accent got. “Every night I have these fucking nightmares. I see my father...fuck!”

            “Nobody is asking you to. You aren’t alone, Elżbieta.”

 She looked up and their eyes met. The look of pure genuineness was on Doc’s face. He had put down his clipboard and pen was looking at her intently.

_He cares…_

            Ela took another shuddering breath and sighed. “Okay…”

            “Take some time for yourself. Think about what we talked about today,” Doc said.

            “Okay…” she repeated before shakily standing up and walking to the door. She pulled her hood over her head, opened the door, and looked back at Doc. “Thank you Gustave,” she managed.

            “Of course.”

She exited the room and shut the door behind her, hiding her face from the nurses and patients in the hallway, and headed back to her destroyed room.

Doc sighed, now alone in the therapy room, and picked back up his clipboard. He made a final note on the bottom of the page.

 

_“Severe PTSD and Survivor’s Guilt symptoms. Recommend for medical discharge.”_

 

**Author's Note:**

> if you have suggestions to make anything more fucking sad, do let me know.


End file.
